and straight on till morning
by possibilist
Summary: 'You just wish they loved you the way you loved them back. You allow yourself to wish these things because all of the stars seem to be moving—falling, fluttering, floating—across the sky anyway.' Quinn's POV post 3x14. Faberry. Happy ending.


summary: 'You wish they loved you properly. Because they do love you, and you know that. You just wish they loved you the way you loved them back. You allow yourself to wish these things because all of the stars seem to be moving—falling, fluttering, floating—across the sky anyway.' Post 3x14, Quinn's POV, Faberry. Happy ending.

an (1): I'm just going to make a little collection of Quinn short stories, I think, and then change the names and publish them. Okay? hahaha, just kidding. But really, I'm completely intrigued by writing these. Hopefully you guys are enjoying them. :) Please leave a review! You're all lovely Xxx

an (2): Recommended listening: "Bella" by Angus & Julia Stone—the most Faberry song ever. (and about a thousand more songs listed at the bottom. just give them a try, please?)

* * *

><p>and straight on till morning<p>

...

_though we have sparred, wrestled, and raged, i can tell you, i love him each day._

...

one: _give me your stardust to remember you by_

_._

The moment of time when glass is popping around you and your bones haven't quite managed to shatter yet, you don't think about your whole life. Maybe it's because it's too painful to cover so quickly, or maybe it's because you're a stranger to that now, or maybe it's because today it's sunny and your hair is blond and you really are beautiful, or maybe it's because it just can't matter.

You do think about Rachel. It doesn't surprise you, and it elongates the breath in your lungs and the whips of your tendons and buckles of your joints, the stitched fabric of your muscles. Once, you'd watched a video of a grand jete in super slow motion—2000 frames per second. It was beautiful, and this is what time feels like now. Slow, like you can sit and walk around within the milliseconds that could be your last ones alive. It's scary, too, but you don't panic.

It seems like it could be five years before that moment ends, and then things are broken and you taste the unmistakable thick film of metal in your mouth, and you can't breathe.

You're conscious for maybe a few more seconds before you're not. In this time you wish. You don't wish for anything in particular—there is no time for that—but you wish anyways, pray for something you don't even know yet.

Maybe it's just for the future. Maybe you just wish to be alive tomorrow.

.

You're sure you're swimming the next time you wake up, because it's cold and all of your sensations are off somehow, and air is certainly evading your lungs, and even when you blink a few times things are still blurry and bright.

"Quinn." Someone's face floats above you.

You groan and it _hurts_.

"You were in an accident, sweetheart. You're in the hospital now."

You try to process this, to understand what that could possibly mean, but you're tired and your mind is floating into airy non-thoughts.

"You're just going to fall asleep, okay?"

The face above you grows dark, and someone runs their fingers through your hair and someone also holds your hand.

You would be scared, but you don't feel alone.

.

You can only open one eye—the right one—the next time you wake up. You still have the sensation that you're being tossed around by the waves of the ocean. Your throat feels like you've been drinking the same salt water.

"Quinn," Rachel breathes when she sees your eyes. She looks tired and sad and awful, and you only process that she's still in her wedding dress before you fall asleep again.

.

It's in the middle of the night when you awaken the next time, and Rachel is asleep in a chair by your bed, your mother next to her. The window doesn't have any blinds over it, and the stars are swirling above their heads. The moon is full and it casts a glow over the entire room. They're statues: Rachel in her white dress; your mother in a sweater set. You stare at them, but you don't wake them up.

You wish they loved you properly. Because they do love you, and you know that. You just wish they loved you the way you loved them back.

You allow yourself to wish these things because all of the stars seem to be moving—falling, fluttering, floating—across the sky anyway.

.

"_Peter Pan _is my favorite movie," you say. "_Favorite_."

"I know," Frannie says, which startles you.

"You're here," you say. You try to open your eyes wider to see her.

She laughs a little, although you're not sure why. "Yes."

"Did you just get here?"

"A few hours ago."

"You cut your hair."

She nods. "I did."

"I love it. Very Emma Watson of you."

She smiles. "Thanks."

"I love _Harry Potter _too."

"I know," she says again.

"But _Peter Pan _more still."

Frannie's face falls then, crumples, and you have no idea why, but you can tell she's trying not to cry. You stick out your hand and completely miss where her face is, but you bring it to the top of her head. "It'll be okay, Fran."

"Okay," she tells you, then kisses your cheek.

"I'll be like Peter."

"Quinn," she says, "I love you."

"I love you, too," you say, not understanding the gravity of the situation. "You're my Wendy."

She cries then, very softly into your palm, and you clumsily wipe her tears.

Only later will she tell you that you'd had the same conversation a few times during that day, and only later will you realise that the only way children can stay like Peter Pan is by dying. Which you almost had.

Only later will you understand. You will never ask her to be Wendy again.

...

two. _fear is the heart of love, so i never went back_

.

Santana and Brittany are there in the morning when you fight out of your dreams.

"Where'd Rachel go?" you slur.

Brittany looks to Santana and then says, "Just home to rest a little, Quinn. She hadn't left since the accident. Like, a day and a half ago."

You try to swallow at this information. It's hard and everything's beginning to hurt. "She was sad."

Santana lets out a strangled laugh. "Jesus, Quinn."

"What?" you ask. Things are becoming confusing again. "She was crying."

Brittany lays her head against your stomach and you might protest if you weren't on more morphine. "We all would've really missed you forever."

It has nothing to do with you, really, but this is the first time you cry.

.

Rachel comes in, in a dress and penny loafers, which makes you feel irrationally and undeniably comforted. "Hey," she says.

"Bonjour."

She doesn't really smile—not one that makes her eyes crinkle—but she offers a small one at you, then sits down in the chair by her bed.

You stick your hand out and she seems to understand because she takes it between hers, which are warm and tremble slightly.

"How're you feeling?"

"Weird," you say. "Blurry."

"You're on lots of morphine."

"So they tell me." You lean back against your pillows.

"Are you in any pain?"

"Not really, Dr. Berry," you say.

"Quinn," she reprimands.

"What?"

She takes a deep breath and then shakes her head.

"I love you," you say. You're high, but you know this is important. You also know that you mean it.

She squeezes your hand. "I love you, too, Quinn."

It's enough.

.

A troop of doctors files into your rooms when you're finally lucid enough to talk coherently again. Things are beginning to really, constantly hurt now, because they're lowering your morphine dosage.

"Quinn," one doctor begins, professional and gentle, and the severity of his tone makes you feel sick. You squeeze desperately at Frannie's hand and try not to whimper.

He chronicles a list of injuries: broken ribs, a punctured lung (which they'd had to remove part of), a broken femur, various other superficial cuts and bruises.

Then he says, "You've had some damage to your spinal chord."

Then he says, "Can you feel your legs?"

Then he says, "It might not be permanent, Quinn."

Then he says more things, about physical therapy and the normal life people can lead in wheelchairs. But nothing after that seems to really matter, because your world is rotating on an entirely different axis now. It's stopped spinning and that, in this moment, is really the only thing you're able to comprehend.

.

Rachel comes again, with Mercedes and Puck, and when they come through the door you just burst into tears, hot sobs moving your chest, which makes it hurt more.

Mercedes immediately wraps you in a gentle hug, murmurs into your hair. Puck stands in a corner with his hand to his mouth, and Rachel hovers somewhere in between them, staring, clenching her jaw.

.

Later that afternoon, Puck and Mercedes go home, and Rachel comes to say goodbye.

"Did you marry him?"

She looks at you seriously, so seriously, and says, "No," and your world spins again.

...

three: _if i kiss you where it's sore, will you feel better?_

.

Frannie comes holding the hand of a very nice-looking man on a particularly tough morning, one where it hurts to breathe, let alone try to do anything else.

She puts a paper bag on the table in front of you. "We snuck you a scone."

"Tricky," you rasp.

She frowns. "Today's bad, huh?"

"No," you whisper, and she tilts her head with a disapproving stare.

"You don't have to lie to _me_, Quinn."

You bite your lip.

"Do you remember Robert?"

"No," you say. "Sorry."

He shakes your head. "It's okay. You were pretty out of it."

"Don't hold anything I said against me."

He laughs. "In any case, I'm Robert."

"My boyfriend," Frannie amends, and they sit down by your bed.

You grin at her. "He came with you back _here_?"

"Obviously."

"To see me?"

Frannie doesn't laugh. "Quinn."

"Sorry."

She takes a deep breath.

"You two are serious, huh?"

Robert looks to Frannie and she gives him a small smile. "Yeah, pretty serious," she says.

You tell them it's wonderful. And it is.

.

Shouting wakes you up from a nap.

"You're not seeing her!" Frannie yells this.

"You don't tell me what I can and cannot do, Francis." Your father's voice is stern.

Frannie steps back once, closer to the door. "Dad," she says, and her voice breaks before she says, "Russell, all you've ever done is hurt her. Hurt _us_," she adds quietly.

There's silence for twelve beats of your heart rate monitor before you hear a gruff, "Tell her to get well soon," and then footsteps fading away.

Then you see Robert take your sister in his arms as she shakes with sobs. He puts one hand along the back of her short hair, holding her head to his shoulder gently, and the other arm snakes around her thin waist.

You can't hear what he tells her, what he whispers gently in your ear, but she's always protected you, and now you're so glad she has someone to catch her when she needed to fall. And you know that no one has ever held you like that. You also know that it's all you ever really want.

.

Your mother comes in with a clear plastic bag.

She clutches onto it, frantically holds it, and Robert offers her his chair.

"Quinnie," she says—and you don't reprimand her for using that awful nickname, just this once, because her hands are shaking—and she puts the bag on your bed, on top of the legs you can no longer feel. "I just wanted you to have these back."

Your heart stops—or really speeds up, as the monitors so readily inform you—when you see that inside the bag are your things from the accident, your one dainty gold bracelet, your cross necklace.

Your phone.

.

When Rachel comes the next time, before she really even tries to make small talk or anything, you tell her, "It wasn't your fault."

Her breath catches and she shakes her head. "I knew you were driving."

"Rachel," you say, "I chose to text you."

"I shouldn't have even—"

"—It was my fault."

"Quinn."

You repeat, "It was my fault, Rachel."

She sits down in a chair by your bed but then stands again in the next second, then moves to sit on the edge of your bed.

"You almost died," she whispers.

"I know."

"No," she says, "you don't. You don't understand."

"Rach—"

"—All I could think about was them _cutting you open_, and then we saw pictures of your car on the news and it was—your blood was everywhere, and I just, I-I—"

And then Rachel puts her hand behind your head and her fingers weave through your hair gently, and then her lips are on yours, and for a moment you breathe again.

Your heart rate monitor spikes and when she backs away you glare at it in embarrassment. "I'm sure I stayed alive for that, just so we're clear," you say.

Rachel smiles. "I'm really, really glad."

You laugh.

"And, Quinn?"

"Yeah?"

"You taste like medicine."

...

four: _yesterday was hard for all of us_

.

You're in a hazy little space of non-sleep after a CT scan. Frannie and Rachel are talking, and Robert is napping.

"I should've been here," Frannie says.

"I'm sure she understands."

Frannie takes a shuddery breath. "Growing up was—nothing was fair for her. I was always into art and Quinn just never—my parents were awful and I got out of there as soon as I could."

"Yeah," Rachel murmurs.

"But I never should've left her with them. Not like—not like that."

"You can't blame yourself for going to make great things."

"No," Frannie says, "but I can blame myself for not seeing the great things that I already had."

.

"Fran?"

"What's wrong, Quinn?"

"Nothing," you say, "I just, I wanted you to know that, that I'm glad you got to leave when you did."

She runs a hand through her hair, which makes it stick up.

"You worked really hard to go to Stanford and you deserve the life you have," you say.

Frannie kisses your forehead. "Thank you."

"And I got into Yale."

She laughs quietly. "You beat me."

"It's because I liked Faulkner at a younger age," you say, intimating your mother's stern warnings about Godard's _A bout de souffle_.

"Still my favorite film ever."

"If anyone ever asks where I learned to be pretentious, you're a shoe-in for leading role model."

Frannie quirks a jaunty smile. "Lady Mary, huh? I always pegged you for more of a Sybil type."

"Does that make you Edith?"

She gasps playfully, bringing a hand to her chest. "How dare you say such a thing! I look _nothing _like George Washington."

You laugh and laugh together, into the night, into the hum and whir of the monitors telling you that you're so fantastically alive.

"Fran?" you whisper, about to fall asleep.

"What?"

"What's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen?"

She's quiet for a minute. "Van Gogh in Paris. A sunrise over the Golden Gate. The sky in Santa Fe. Robert," she says, then adds, "you."

.

"Artie," you say, "I just want to say that I'm so, so sorry if I ever made fun of you, or hurt you or—"

"—Quinn," he says, "it's okay."

"It's not."

He takes your hand and says, "Yes, it is. I forgive if you ever did any of those things. Promise."

"Thank you."

"You're going to have to be really brave," he says.

You're quiet before you ask, "Will you help me?"

He smiles. "I'd love to."

...

five: _heal me with a smile, send shivers down my spine_

.

"Quinn _Fabray_," Kurt sings, opening the door with Blaine close behind before stopping in the threshold.

You're currently topless because today you get to have your chest tubes removed—they'd been there since your surgery because your chest was still draining blood and other fluids—and a doctor is currently swabbing your ribs with orange antiseptic, making you shiver. "When a door is closed, it's customary to knock, you know," you say, gritting as the doctor touches one of the drains.

"Should we come back?" Blaine asks quickly, and you shake your head desperately.

"Please stay."

They nod and come to sit on your right side, leaving the doctor plenty of room.

Kurt takes your hand with a scared, comforting smile and you squeeze it tight. The doctor makes one quick stitch around the tube and then says, "Okay, Quinn, take a deep breath, then hold it."

You do so, and then he pulls the tube out of your chest quickly, but it's still the most painful thing you've ever felt, even more than having Beth. It hurts so much you can't even cry. It makes you feel nauseous instead, and then it hurts to breathe.

"Quinn?" Blaine whispers as you struggle to keep any food down and also not pass out.

"Fuck," you press out.

"Do you want us to sing?"

You manage a tiny nod, and then they start singing "The Girl" by City and Colour, and it's the most calming thing you've ever heard.

Finally, after two more drains and maybe passing out once, the doctor declares you finished and helps you into a new gown.

"Thank you," you say as loudly as you can to Kurt and Blaine. The entire thing has made you sleepy, and they help situate your pillows.

Kurt shakes his head. Blaine leans back and says, "You're incredible, you know that?"

.

Shelby and Beth accompany Puck to the hospital one day.

"Quinn," Beth says, climbing on your legs, "Quinn, Quinn, Quinn."

It makes you cry and Puck says proudly, "I taught her."

.

The first time you look in a mirror, you have to hold back the impulse to break it. Your bruises have almost disappeared—and you don't even want to _think_ about what those might've looked like—but there are a few red scars along your cheek and on your jaw. The other scars crisscrossing your body are worse, but they could be hidden with clothes. But your face was _your face_.

You take a few steadying breaths before Frannie knocks on the door. "Quinn?"

"I'm fine," you say.

She's quiet but you know she doesn't leave. "I meant it, you know."

"Meant what?" you whisper.

"That you're one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen."

You open the door then, and allow her to take you into her arms as you cry.

.

It's during a rerun of _Parenthood _on Netflix that you lean over in bed and kiss Rachel.

She kisses you back and you miss the last half of the episode. She rewinds it but you end up falling asleep, your head against her shoulder and your heart flailing away.

You won't realise until morning that your legs are tingling, too.

...

six: _vowels = space + time_

.

You listen to them talk when you're peeing.

Rachel asks, "Are you still Christian?"

Frannie says, "Yes."

Rachel says, "Oh."

Frannie laughs. "We—Robert and I—go to a really cool church in the city. And, Rachel," she says, "we work with the LGBT community center next door all the time."

Rachel's voice is saturated with hope when she says, "Really?"

Frannie says, "Yep."

Then they're quiet.

Then Frannie says, "I know you love her."

Rachel sniffs.

"And I _know _she loves you back."

"And that's—okay?"

Frannie says, "Rachel, she deserves all the love in the world."

.

The entire Glee club and what seems like half of the hospital staff is there when you get released, and they clap and give you hugs and smile brightly.

You know, even now, that there's no way you'll ever be able to thank them. But one day, you will do something—_write _something—beautiful. You will dedicate it to them.

.

It's fairly apparent that you have PTSD as soon as the car moves, because you hyperventilate and tremble and it's so scary you don't know how you'll make it home.

Rachel and Frannie squish you between them in the back seat of your mother's Honda, and they wrap you in their arms tightly.

When you finally get home, your mother and Robert help you out and into your wheelchair. Rachel sits in the seat, statue-still, unblinking.

Frannie throws up in the front lawn.

.

Your first session of physical therapy is the most painful, frustrating thing you've ever experienced in your entire life.

But Santana and Brittany are there, and they challenge you to footsies, taking off their shoes and sitting on the mat, legs outstretched. Your physical therapist smiles and you strain to move your toes, your brows pulled together and your lip sandwiched between your teeth, but when you do, knocking them against Brittany's ankle—_and you can feel it_—you can't help but join in their cheer.

.

The problem is that you have to drive to get to school. You learn that one of the most common side effects for young people with PTSD is trouble concentrating, and suddenly you go from someone who could sit through four hours of lecture about feminist literary criticism without batting an eyelash to someone who can't sit through four minutes of "Howl" by Allen Ginsberg before you look at the window at the clear rain snaking down the pane and letting your mind wander to beavers and teapots and Beth and Anthropologie's April catalogue.

Mike and Tina have the most classes with you, so Rachel commands them to help you focus, which they do, by gently moving your notebook when you stop writing things down, or nudging your arm lightly with a small smile. Tina squeezes your hand quite often in AP Calc II (although no amount of focus will make you completely pay attention in _math_).

You keep all As. This is a miracle.

...

seven: _i'll make you a star in my universe, you'll spend everyday shining your light my way_

.

The first time you walk it's on a Saturday morning, and you situate yourself between the two parallel bars in the physical therapy clinic, and Rachel smiles encouragingly at you.

Then you are brave, and, even though it hurts a lot, it does feel like a life that is entirely yours again.

.

Your valedictorian speech is focused on lyrical prose and an emphasis on the symbolic rather than the rhetorical. Or at least this is what you tell your English teacher.

She laughs and smiles at you, and then she says, "You're going to make a remarkable writer."

.

Despite the fact that going to a wedding is causing you to have just about a thousand and one PTSD triggers, you're mostly excited to see Mr. Schue and Emma get married.

You and Rachel get ready together, and you wear a pink dress with hand-stitched flowers on it, a present from Frannie that arrived via Free People the day before, a happy surprise. You wear socks and pretty oxfords, and you allow your hair to fall softly, just against the line of your jaw. You weave stephanotis into a loose braid of Rachel's dark hair, just like Joan Didion in _Blue Nights_.

But as you take four deep breaths before walking—slowly, with a cane, but _walking_—to your white seats, lush in the late sun of the summer, you can't help but know that your blue nights—the always ending, repeating, gentle caress of the days' last warmth—is just a precursor to the darkness that doesn't scare you. Not anymore.

You have a star to hold, to keep you warm, to love. All of your own.

Rachel takes your hand and you kiss her knuckles with a smile. For tonight, you don't even need wishes.

* * *

><p>References (this time they're all songs—sans <em>Peter Pan<em>—because we all need more music to fall in love with, right?):

title: _Peter Pan_, 1953  
>quote: "The Predatory Wasp of the Palisades is out to get Us" by Sufjan Stevens.<br>one: "Boats and Birds" by Gregory and the Hawk.  
>two: "I Will Follow You Into the Dark" by Death Cab for Cutie.<br>three: "Better" by Regina Spektor.  
>four: "Yesterday Was Hard for All of Us" by Fink.<br>five: "Summer Cold" by Big Deal.  
>six: "Vowels = Space + Time" by Grimes.<br>seven: "For You" by Angus & Julia Stone.


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